The Way You Fall Asleep
by rosaisanerd
Summary: It's a funny thing, love. It's strange, and painful, and inexplicably beautiful. To lay back with someone amongst the stars and watch the world go by, that's what most people want. But love's not like that – at least, that's what John Watson had discovered.
1. Chapter 1

The Way You Fall Asleep

Chapter 1

It's a funny thing, love. It's strange, and beautiful, and inexplicably painful. To lay back with someone amongst the stars and watch the world go by, that's what most people want. But love's not like that – at least, that's what John Watson had discovered. For him, love was risking your life and your soul and your entire being for someone you'd only met last week. Love was putting up with every single irritating thing about a person because they simply completed you. Love was making someone a cup of tea when they were working, even though you knew they wouldn't drink it. Love was standing and watching while the person you thought would be with you forever threw himself off a building.

It had been four years, and it still hurt when he thought about that day. Four years, and he still had to drag a sleeve across his eyes and turn his head away when he remembered Sherlock's last goodbye. After his body had been wheeled away, John had struggled home, brushing aside offers of help from Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He'd lain in bed and stared at the cracks on the ceiling, numb with loss. He couldn't live without Sherlock, it was as simple as that.

He didn't sleep that night, and stumbled through the next day in a haze. Then there were the three desolate years of pain and anger and frustration and longing and just plain grief - he'd genuinely thought he was going to die, at one point. The only thing that kept him going was the thought that Sherlock would've thought him weak. 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side' after all. So he kept on living his meaningless existence, waiting for the day Sherlock Holmes would walk back through the door.

He had, of course, on an otherwise unspectacular day. He'd looked older – they both had, John supposed – and less flighty. More grounded, somehow, than before. Wiser. John had laughed to himself when Sherlock had entered the room, thinking of course that it was a hallucination of his broken mind, a taunting image sent from his subconscious - then he had looked again, and realised that no, it was really him. He'd stood up slowly, then thrown his cane aside and walked over to his flatmate. He'd reached up a hand and passed it over Sherlock's face, bringing it down to linger over his collarbone and coat lapels, he'd looked directly into his eyes… and then he'd punched him in the face. As Sherlock lay gasping on the floor of 221B, John had stood over him and shouted abuse until he was sure the opposite side of London had heard.

"_How could you do this to me, Sherlock?"  
"John, I'm sorry, I am, I just.."_

"_Don't talk to me! How could you even – where were you? Don't answer that. I don't care. Look what's happened to me, Sherlock." _He'd thrown his arm out in the genereal direction of the flat. _"I've been sitting here, waiting for you, for three years. __**Three years**__, Sherlock. Do you have __**any idea **__how awful it's been? How alone I've felt?"_

"_John. Listen to me. I had to do it, I had to fake my own death, Moriarty was going to kill you-"_

"_Shut up, Sherlock. Just… just shut up." _He'd pulled the taller man to his feet, pushed him against the wall of their flat – because it was _their _flat again, now – and kissed him hard on the mouth. It had been messy and unfamiliar, with teeth and tongues and (if John remembered correctly) a spot of biting, but it was perfect because it was _theirs_.

That one kiss had become many, over time, and then there was holding hands in public and a hug after a case. There had been stolen moments in alleyways, emerging with rumpled clothes and secretive smiles on their faces - and, eventually, there had been stumbling through the door in a frenzy of ripping clothes and snatched breaths and muffled cries of each other's names. There had been murmurs of "Are you sure you're okay with this?" and ruffled hair and hot, damp skin. Then there had been the morning after, where Sherlock had made John a cup of tea for the first time ever and kissed him sweetly on the corner of his mouth. There had been the night on the rooftop, where John came home and Sherlock was stargazing. He'd nearly had a heart attack, and was trying to drag him back inside when Sherlock had pulled him over to sit next to him. He'd gasped in shock, leaning into Sherlock for support. Sherlock had put a hand under his chin and brought his lips right up to John's ear. John could still remember his warm, sweet breath on his cheek as he whispered "I love you, John Hamish Watson." A year later, and now there are two matching gold bands on their fingers and a photo on the mantelpiece next to the skull. They complete each other, and that's all there is to it.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He'd known that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes the day after he fell from St Bart's. He'd known that the way he was feeling wasn't the way one felt when one lost a good friend. He felt hollow, empty, alone; and that's when he knew that he was falling in love. It was a rush of sudden realisation, and he felt lighter, somehow, knowing. To quote a book he had once read, he 'fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once'. Love hurt, and it was terrifying, and felt remarkably like hate at times; but it was love, and it was real and true and he is satisfied with that.

Sometimes, in the mornings, the sparrows on their roof wake him earlier than usual. John especially loves these days. They are clean, and crisp, and the silence is almost tangible. They are bright, and peaceful, and London seems somehow magical in the light of these new days. They're not like regular ones. He doesn't get up and make a cup of tea straight away like he normally does – instead, he simply lies there and soaks in the atmosphere, the calm and sweet breeze whispering softly across his eyelids. And then, when he is more alert, he opens his eyes and looks across to where he knows his husband will be. That's another thing about love; you know there's always going to be someone lying there on the other side of the bed.

Sherlock is utterly different when he sleeps. He is still, and almost angelic, his brilliant mind at rest for once. John can lie for hours just watching him breathe, treasuring the rise and fall of his chest. Now he knows what it feels like to lose him, he cherishes every beat of his heart, every flutter of his eyelashes. He watches as the sun rises and colours Sherlock's cheeks pale gold, and brushes his fingers across his jawline and down over his collarbone. He lets his hand lie there in the hollow of his husband's neck, the other arm thrown across his stomach, and he waits. He never wakes Sherlock. It is an unspoken deal he has with himself – he always, always lets him sleep until he wakes of his own accord. It's something to do with the way Sherlock hitches in a little breath before he opens his incredible eyes that look at you as if they could swallow you whole, or the way his first word in the morning is always, without fail, 'John.' Not a question, a statement. Spoken in that husky, sleep-roughened baritone. These things only occur if John lets Sherlock sleep, and so of course he does.

Then, after they have shared morning kisses and whispers and promises of love, they make breakfast. Sherlock has tea, and John has two slices of toast with jam. It's their routine, one of the only things in their life apart from each other that they can depend on, and they appreciate it. They make light conversation about trivial matters - Mrs Turner's married ones are adopting a baby, the robbery over on North Gower Street. Then, when they are done, John piles up the dirty crockery and Sherlock wanders over to the window and picks up his violin. It is one of the things John loves most about their mornings, listening to Sherlock play – he could almost fall back to sleep, washed away by the familiar melodies. He knows them all, now, even the ones Sherlock makes up. Music is a mystery to John - with its incomprehensible crotchets, and minims, and semi-demi-quavers, and its bemusing Italian words that he hears Sherlock murmuring to himself as he brings the bow back and forth (_legato, rallentando, diminuendo)_ - but it doesn't matter. All that matters is the sound, and the love in the room as he listens to his husband tell the stories noted down in music form hundreds of years ago and many worlds away.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

One of the things John finds he loves most about their life is the sheer number of possibilities. Each new day brings about conversations to be had, kisses to be shared, cases to be solved. They're still working with Scotland Yard, of course, but not as closely as before. When he first returned, Sherlock had wanted to go back to how it was, with them running after serial killers at ridiculous times in the morning, with exhilaration and adrenaline the only things keeping them going, but John had said no. He'd had enough near-death experiences to last him – well, a lifetime. So now they are called only for minor cases, ones which will put them at no risk. They still have a hand in solving almost every crime the Yard comes up against; but they don't do the chasing, not any more. This is a new chapter in their lives, and it's different, of course it is, but it's good. It is our choices that make us, and they have chosen each other.

They go about each day as if it is their last one together. That afternoon on St Bart's has shown both of them how fragile and fleeting life is, how delicate and precious. They never miss a chance to tell the other that they love them. They argue, of course – every couple does – but never for long, and there are no grudges held. John knows when Sherlock is tired and picking a fight just for the sake of it, and he knows when he's genuinely angry about something. In the first situation, the remedy is simple – a chaste, soft kiss, and all is forgiven. In the second, he listens patiently to his husband rant; sometimes he argues back, and sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he simply leans back in his chair and let the angry words wash over him - for they are just words, and we are all stories in the end.

People ask them how they do it, how they make their relationship work as well as it does, and the truth is that they simply know each other inside out. They know when the other has had a bad day and just needs a kiss and an understanding smile, and they know when the other is bored. (This still happens far too often, despite John's best efforts.) On cases, it's not Sherlock doing the work and John praising him - not any more. They work together, their minds moving as one. The sociopath and his doctor. The detective and his blogger. The head and the heart.

It's an advantage for everyone, really – the deductions are slicker and smoother than ever before, the case is solved, the criminal is brought to justice. They get a clap on the back and a warm handshake from Lestrade, a gaze of uncomprehending disbelief from Anderson and a shake of the head from Donovan. Even the business cards have changed. They now read 'Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Consulting Detectives'. Sherlock's not the only one in the world, not any more, and it took a bit of getting used to but he finds that really it's perfect this way. He never has to shout for John any more, never has to text him or ask him to pass him things, because John is always there. Without exception. Any time of day or night, any circumstance or situation. Always.

And it works for John, too. He never has to wake up in the morning to a silent house, never has to frantically rush around London trying to find Sherlock so he can be sure he hasn't gone and got himself _killed, _and for real this time_. _He knows exactly where he is, and how to get to him. It's as if there's some sort of string tied to each man's finger, linking them together so they can never lose each other. The first time this thought occurred to John, he was reminded of a story his mother used to tell him and Harry when they were little. _"__An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break." _John likes to imagine this thread sometimes, when he and Sherlock are reading together on the sofa before bed. He pictures a simple string, vibrant and pulsing with colour, joining the two of them as they sit there entwined. It's perfect, really, because they both know that however tangled their life may become, however fraught with danger it might be, there will always be that connection between them. It may not be visible; but it's real, and that's enough for them.


End file.
